Pure of Heart
by SophieB
Summary: SLASH. Harry wanders the halls thinking up a plan for his revenge when who should step out of the shadows but Draco Malfoy himself. An odd confrontation ensues and Harry finds himself in a pradicament.**chapter THREE** Fifth year H/D (SLASH) fic.
1. Prologue

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Title: Pure of Heart (1/?)

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Author: Adenosine

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E-mail: sophia3b@yahoo.com

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Rating: R

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Summary: He needs someone to fill the void. He needs someone to dissolve the illusions. He needs someone to understand. Someone to trust. Someone to love. To love him. And he needs it before he gives up his life forever. A Voldemort fic. Draco is chosen to join the inner circle, to be bound by blood and for life to the Dark Lord himself. Perhaps Harry can save him, but who's going to save Harry? Harry gets protective. Draco catches moonbeams in a jar. Snape plays mentor. And Dumbledore is himself.

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Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The song _The Perfect Drug_ is by Trent Reznor I guess. Or would it be Nine Inch Nails? The point being that it does not belong to me and I claim no rights to it.

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Author's note: I was bored. This happened.

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Pure of Heart

Prologue

"This little piggy went to market."

He dropped the leg on the floor.

"This little piggy stayed home."

Another leg.

"This little piggy had roast beef on rye."

Another.

"This little piggy had none."

A fourth fell.

"And this little piggy, he cried wree wree wree all the way home, the silly bastard."

He dropped a leg to the stone with a sigh. Then another two for good measure.

Grasping the only remaining leg in between his thumb and forefinger, he held the spider up before him. He dangled the arachnid by the lone limb, in front of his eyes, as if it was some morbid Christmas tree ornament. The creature was stiff, petrified by a spell. But it was still alive. He could see the spinets working feverishly, like hairy little fingers, shooting silk aimlessly in a hollow attempt at escape. The pearly threads floated through the air like moonbeams. He lifted a jar from the windowsill and captured the precious wisps, sealing them tightly within their glass prison.

He didn't have to do it. He didn't have to do that to the spider. Snape had told them to collect silk. It needn't be fresh. It needn't be straight from the spider and pure. He looked up at the web stretching across the windowsill. The moonlight reflected off the silver strands so fine as to have no substance at all, channeling the light like electricity through invisible copper wire. There was enough silk there for ten people. But it would be such a shame to destroy something so pretty. What a waste that would be. Better to get what he wanted from the spider, ugly and loathsome. And the silk would be pure. He liked his things pure, untouched. His father had taught him that much in life. Purity is important above all else. Without purity you are dirty, shameful, corrupt. Malfoys were not to be corrupted. Malfoys were to corrupt others. Purity was important. He looked to the web once again. Woven into the silken threads were wings, lacey wings, and ragged wings. They interrupted the perfect geometric pattern in various places across the web, adding or detracting from the beauty Draco could not decide. It _was_ still beautiful, shining there in the window. Still beautiful. But flawed. But beautiful. Like so many things.

He turned away. He could feel it pulling up in him, from somewhere right above his stomach, where his diaphragm must have been. It was cold and black and hate. Yes that's what it was. Hate. But why he wasn't sure. But it was there in his midpoint and spreading upward into his heart and his mind. It was times like these when he felt the need to destroy something. Something beautiful perhaps. 

A/N: No real spiders were harmed in the writing of this fic as I like them too much. I'd dedicate this chapter to Ron Weasley if he were a real person. Review if you'd like. Thanks.

-Sophie B.


	2. Chapter One

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Title: Pure of Heart

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Author: Adenosine

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E-mail: sophia3b@yahoo.com

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Rating: R

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Summary: He needs someone to fill the void. He needs someone to dissolve the illusions. He needs someone to understand. Someone to trust. Someone to love. To love him. And he needs it before he gives up his life forever. A Voldemort fic. Draco is chosen to join the inner circle, to be bound by blood and for life to the Dark Lord himself. Perhaps Harry can save him, but who's going to save Harry? Harry gets vengeful. Draco collects moonbeams in a jar. Snape plays mentor. And Dumbledore is himself.

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Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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Author's note: I suppose I should mention that this was going to be a song fic but is now only vaguely based on the song, which will be found at the end when I'm finished. If I finish. This part is a bit scatterbrained ::shrugs:: I liked it...

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Pure of Heart

Chapter 1

Harry looked across the Great Hall to the Slytherin table.

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Who to pick, who to pick?

The past summer had been harrowing. Harry expected as much. Dumbledore tried to explain to him that the feelings were normal. A person simply did not watch someone die at the hands of a recently resurrected not-quite-human psychopath, come inches away from losing their own life, and walk away unaffected. 

The train trip was quiet. People didn't bother him, apart from the incident with Malfoy. Watching the git get his comeuppance was something of a brief respite from the thoughts reverting back to the night in the graveyard. But even the sight of Slytherins hexed and passed out on the ground was not enough to keep his spirits up for longer than he was on the Hogwarts Express. The moment he stepped off the train at King's Cross Station and passed through the barrier, Harry knew it was going to be a long summer. Dudley's massive form and Uncle Vernon's sour face met him outside the station. 

The ride back to Privet drive found Harry at the brunt of his cousin's vicious jokes and spasmic foot as his uncle ignored him in usual form. Normally, he might have retorted with a clever remark and caustic wit or kicked back, but any desire to react sank back just as the pale bruises began to appear on his shins. Dudley didn't appreciate being ignored and moved on to other tactics that rude boys procure for themselves early on—poking, pinching, spitting, and all manners of hurting. Harry sat back looking out the window, tired, resigned, and not particularly caring. 

His aunt stood waiting on the stoop as they pulled up the drive. She held a tray of sweets for her Ickle Duddykins who she wrapped to the best of her ability in a warm and expansive embrace as she greeted her husband with a sloppy kiss. Life as usual. It left Harry feeling cold.

Hermione had sent him a letter. And a book. _The Six Stages of Grief: Mending a Heart Broken by Time or Circumstance in the Wizarding World_. Leave it to Hermione to think a book would solve anything. The accompanying letter was long, a whole page, front and back. 

'Dear Harry, How are you? I wanted to tell you how sorry I am…' he ripped it up without finishing and dumped the pieces out the second story window, watching the sad confetti drift down like snowflakes and melt into the Dursley's new swimming pool (the one he wasn't allowed to swim in). He would have burnt it but the hearth was still boarded up. Sitting back on his bed, he picked up the book for lack of anything better to do. _Chapter 1: Avoidance and Apathy._

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Blaise Zabini? No, too neutral.

He'd sat at the kitchen table, pushing the food around his plate. They were having bratwurst. Petunia yelled at him for getting food on the table. It was only a pea, but it was apparently enough to ruin her perfect 'antique' silk tablecloth. Who used their fine tablecloth for no good reason? It wasn't even Sunday. It wasn't even antique. Besides, Dudley had already dripped brown gravy all over it; a pea wasn't going to make it much worse. But she didn't see, or care to see anything but the pea. He was sent to bed without being allowed to finish. Just as well. Harry hated bratwurst.

He dug through his trunk throwing things about the room, looking not for anything in particular, but only something to do. The trunk sat empty after a few minutes of his frantic rummaging. Sitting down beside it on the floor, he picked up the thing closest to him, his sneak-a-scope. Wondering vaguely why it never seemed to go off from Dudley's presence (only works for magical people he figured.), he tossed it back in the trunk. His invisibility cloak, the picture album, the map, some books, odds and ends, he picked up each and examined it with the thoroughness of a statistician and put it back in the trunk. 

Something small and shiny sat out of arms reach to his left. He left his comfortable spot on the floor and went to it. The dragon. Harry smiled softly at the little creature as he cupped it in his hands and went to the bed. That had been an adventure, facing the Horntail. He could be proud of himself for that one. It had been _his_ task. It was a well-fought victory when he'd gotten the egg. Harry chuckled. Of course once he'd _had_ it, he hadn't a clue what to do with the blasted thing. It was a good thing Cedric had given him that hint. He hadn't thanked the boy properly at the time; he really ought to send an owl or something…the incident fled his memory, replaced by a dull nothing as Harry remembered. _Chapter 2: Shock and Denial._

Crabbe? No, too obtuse. Goyle? The same.

Sleep was a nightmare. He could close his eyes and drift off easily, but never could he seem to reach the point of rest. He always woke up before. Maybe it was a good thing. Once, when he actually allowed himself to sleep through the whole night, his slumber was invaded with terrible dreams. Curiously, Cedric wasn't there. Nor was Peter Pettigrew, or the Death eaters, or even Voldemort. Just his parents. They stood looking at him from the depths of the mirror of Erised, out of reach as ever. They had shaken their heads at him and turned their backs to walk away. He tried to run after them begging and pleading with them not to go but they only ever got further away. It felt like hours of running before he'd realized he was not going anywhere, but stuck where he was in the middle of that miserable graveyard, alone. His eyes had sunken deeper, the shadows of his sleep deprived brow casting his normally bright emerald eyes a deep forest green hue. It didn't matter either way though. Asleep he'd dream of his parents. Awake he would dream of Cedric. 

Harry hadn't known Cedric Diggory that well. Cedric was a very popular boy. Harry had hated him for it. Harry, himself was a bit of a geek. Always famous but never really popular in the way that kids his age longed to be. He and the Hufflepuff didn't exactly hang out in the same circles. He'd realized it when Cho had turned him down, when he'd asked her to the ball. He'd hated Cedric the moment she had said she was going with him instead. Harry felt bad about it now. Cedric had done everything to contradict Harry's hatred and jealousy. He'd been kind and decent and courteous. He'd been a true hero, something Harry still didn't know if he himself could ever live up to. He hadn't been able to save the boy after all. _Chapter 3: Guilt and Self-Doubt_

Pansy Parkinson…too scornful. 

Aunt Marge had died. The innumerable years of bingeing and drinking caught up with her in the predictable way. They found her on the floor of her living room. She had been dead for a week and mauled almost beyond recognition by her precious dogs. Terribly ironic. Surprisingly, they took him to the funeral. They must have realized it would hurt him. It was only the second dead person Harry had ever seen in his life. Some how they managed to fix her face up enough to have an open casket, though the stitches showed where the tears were particularly bad, leaving the flesh ragged and stiff as it curled in at the edges like dried orange peels. It was in poor taste. 

Harry wondered what his parent's funeral was like. Hopefully not like this. Tacky. A tacky birthday party or wedding was one thing but it must be some kind of sin to have a tacky funeral. The mismatched flower arrangements and superfluous banners made it seem almost like a carnival of sorts. The giant mural sized portrait Vernon had made up didn't help any. Spiteful people wandered about, half looking as if they were there only for the buffet. The eulogy was shit, wholly contrived, complete with cheesy song lyrics and soap opera dramatics. Harry hated Aunt Marge. He wouldn't have been surprised if everyone there hated Marge (Vernon excepted). 

But still, didn't they care that someone had died? Didn't it warrant some kind of courtesy? All they did was laugh and chat go about with their miserable lives not even acknowledging the loss. People were dead, gone forever and they could think of nothing but themselves. Cedric was robbed of something precious and no one cared. And Harry was hurting and no one cared. Cedric was gone forever and Harry had sat and watched him go. And no one was going to make it any better. He hated everyone at that moment, himself the most. _Chapter 4: Anger_.

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Millicent Bulstrode, Malcolm Baddock, Graham Pritchard? No…not good enough.

Cho Chang called. It was weird. She told him not to feel guilty. She told him not to blame himself. She also asked him not to speak to her the upcoming school year. He could understand that. It was painful to talk to people who remind you of ones you've lost. He wrote Sirius a short note and cried himself to sleep that night and then cried himself awake the next morning. _Chapter 5: Depression and Sadness_.

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Draco Malfoy.

Harry had made a decision. He couldn't sit and wallow in his grief induced complacency. It was his birthday and Ron sent him a letter. Voldemort had struck. Harry read about it again the next day when the Daily Prophet flew in through his window in the talons of a daily delivery owl. Two wizards killed in the attack. One victim of the Killing Curse. The other fell to the Cruciatus. 

Harry remembered Crucio. To endure it for long enough to die…was frighteningly imaginable. A terribly tangible idea. Karkaroff was the one Crucio'd to death. The other, a pureblood, a young witch working as a barmaid where Karkaroff had been drinking disguised as a traveling broom salesman, had been killed with Avada Kedavra. The unwitting victim. The spare. 

Harry needed to do something. For that girl, for his parents. For Cedric…Voldemort had stolen Cedric from the people who loved him, who needed him. Harry would steal something from Voldemort…something the Dark Lord needed. Something the Dark Lord would sorely miss, like Mr. and Mrs. Diggory missed their son. Like Cho Chang missed her boyfriend. Like Harry missed Cedric.

He sat on his bed and stared at the gold plated award. His name was engraved there right under the word 'Champion' and above the date, June 24, 1995. The shiny metal reflected his blank face distorted at the bulging bowl of the golden goblet. The Ministry had sent him the cursed thing a few days ago. It was a smaller version of the port-key that he had shared with Cedric and came with a short note of consolation attached. It was quite the blind and insensitive gesture on the Minister's part. God how he hated Cornelius Fudge. 

Harry turned to the next chapter in his book. _Acceptance_. He laughed shortly and walked down stairs, grabbing the book and the Tri-Wizard Cup off his bed on the way out of the room. After chucking the trophy at his cousin's head as Dudley sat in the living room gorging himself on Aunt Petunia's detestable tapioca pudding, Harry went out to the shed to see if he couldn't find his uncle's starter fluid.

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Draco Malfoy.

Sitting in the wet grass he watched the pages burn like flash paper in the little bare patch that he'd cleared out in the back yard. Uncle Vernon came and boxed his ears for putting the house in danger with his fire setting activities and for using his lighter without permission, or otherwise. Harry smiled slightly to himself as he rubbed his sore ears and let the hatred flow though him and out his fist as it met with the side of Uncle Vernon's ugly pudgy face. His uncle got over the shock in seconds and threw his nephew back against a tree. Harry slumped down against the trunk as Vernon stormed back into the house locking the door behind him. Harry shrugged. He was leaving for school tomorrow anyhow. What remained of the book sat steaming cheerfully a few feet away, swirls of smoke rising merrily from the skeletal binding and the last few seared folios. Words coalesced on the dirty brown paper like magic before Harry's luminous emerald eyes. _Afterword: Revenge._

Harry's lips quirked into the ghost of a smile. 

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Draco Malfoy. Perfect.

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A/N: Bad, choppy writing aside, I like this. for reasons. This will be Harry/Draco slash if that is not apparent. **Thanks to Luca and Ines.** Next chapter will contain actual dialogue. Again, review if you please. Thanks.


	3. Chapter Two

**Pure of Heart (2/?)**

**E-mail: sophia3b@yahoo.com**

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling.  No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

**A/N:  Hi.  Nice day isn't it?  How I do love the summertime.  If you believe something strongly enough does it become real?…::sigh::...rain, rain go away…**

**Note: this is all very incoherent and probably won't make any sense to anyone but me.  It's all very heady, _all up in my head…I don't think it translated well.  It's actually quite boring, but I like it that way.  Quiet and boring.  I know Dumbledore is not usually so wordy and is a bit OOC, but he is __really worried.  Also, Harry's not as far gone as he seems, he's just impatient and single-minded.  And he ignores some things because of that, like the fact that he has an icicle's chance in hell of ever keeping a secret from Dumbledore.  He's just naïve.  Despite everything he's been through.  Very, very naïve._**

Pure of Heart Chapter 2 

"Harry, are you okay?"

Harry turned his gaze from the Slytherin table to find Hermione watching him.  Again.  He smiled.  " 'M, fine."

"_Right.  I've been saying your name for the past three minutes.  You just sat there like you were in another universe," she paused to give him a considering glance.  "So…something interesting happening with the Slytherins?"_

"Huh?  What about the Slytherins?" asked Ron, pausing in mid bite of the ham sandwich in his hand.

"Nothing.  I was just thinking," said Harry.

"What were you thinking?"

Harry shook his head and smiled at his red headed friend.  "Nevermind, it wasn't anything."

"Oh…okay."  Ron shrugged and focused his attention back on his lunch.  Hermione continued to look at Harry with worried eyes.  

He had been staring at the Slytherins every day since the Welcoming Feast, for the past week.  It was only natural for Hermione to begin to notice his unusual preoccupation with that particular table.  She was a very observant witch.  And being so, she could figure things out for herself.  Harry matched her gaze, causing her to fidget and look away.  _He certainly wasn't about to tell her anything._

As she examined the knots in the wood of the table, Hermione bit her lip and ventured her previous question once more.  "Harry, are you really all right?  I mean _really?"  She looked up at him, eyes big and softly pleading with him to trust her, to let her help fix whatever wrong he felt within him._

"Really.  I am.  Thanks for asking Hermione."  He looked down at his plate where his own sandwich lay untouched but for the small nibble in the corner.  People had been asking him that a lot lately.  No, not lately.  His whole life.  Ever since he'd gotten _here anyway.  It had felt good at first, after the Dursleys, to find that anybody still cared about him, but…_

What would happen if he told them he wasn't all right?  He could have, but that was not what they wanted to hear.  They didn't want to hear that things were not well with their hero.  And what could they do if he told them?  It was an annoyance being asked again and again when the answer was always the same lie.

He looked up and gave her one of his lopsided grins—the disarming ones that made people think of his father and happier times—coaxing a small smile back.  Smiling in and of itself didn't appeal to him much, let alone the fact that—with how foreign it had become over the summer—the action wasn't particularly easy anymore, perhaps even downright painful.  But at least it might get her off his back.  

He might have appreciated the consideration before, but now he wished people would just stay away from him.  He felt claustrophobic from all their comforting and concern.  They just kept trying to get too close, as if he would break to pieces if they didn't hold him together, putting their hands all over him, thinking they could ease his soul, touch his heart.  But nothing could touch him now.  Well…Voldemort…

So he would go on smiling, and smiling, and lying…

"I'm done.  I think I'm going to go finish some work.  See you in a bit."  Harry pulled away from the table and stood.

"Mmmnpf," said Ron through his mouth full of food, giving a short wave with his free hand.

"Bye Harry," said Hermione uncertainly.

***

Harry walked out of the hall straight into Professor Dumbledore.  He apologized hurriedly, stepping aside for the Headmaster.  But the Professor didn't move.  He smiled down at Harry, azure eyes twinkling away.

"Ah Harry, I was just looking for you."

"Oh.  What for sir?"  Harry asked casually.

"I wanted to talk to you about some things pertaining to your recent undertaking."

Harry stared blankly at the old wizard.  "Sorry?"

"Why don't you come up to my office with me.  We can talk about it there."

"Okay…"

Dumbledore turned and marched back down the hall with Harry tagging at his heal.  They ascended the steps to the second floor and walked to the Headmaster's corridor, pausing at the gargoyle blocking the entrance to his office.

"Wax lips."

The gargoyle swung aside easily, revealing the moving staircase.  The two wizards rode up the magical contraption and entered Dumbledore's office.  Motioning Harry to a seat before the large mahogany desk, the Headmaster settled into his own chair across from the boy.  Harry sat down gratefully, sinking into the comfortable and familiar velvet upholstery.  Dumbledore steepled his fingers on the desk before him and sat silently watching the young wizard, with bright thoughtful eyes.

Harry would have squirmed under the gaze had it originated from anyone else.  But he was used to being scrutinized by the Headmaster.  He felt safe here.  Watched and safe.  Away from everyone, he would have been happy to sit in the quiet of the office for the rest of the day, the only break in the silence the low cooing murmur of Fawkes napping in the corner and sneak-a-scopes whirring white noise on the mantle.  Still he was curious as to why exactly he had been called to the office.  A small paranoid thought flitted across his mind.  And suddenly those deep azure eyes looked much too knowing and all too prying for his tastes.

"Sir?" he grumbled, shifting in his seat nervously as he tried to remain there.  It really was too late to be bolting out the door and making off down the hall, though he felt like doing just that.

"Ah yes, of course.  How was your summer Harry?" asked Dumbledore pleasantly.  

Harry thought for a moment.  "Oh, well…hmm…it wasn't so bad I guess.  My scar didn't hurt much, only one or two days."  _And every night, the bitter thought settled gently on his quivering nerves.  "And not many dreams."  __Couldn't stay asleep long enough to dream._

"And your family?"

Harry cringed.

"Same as always.  It hadn't gotten much worse.  They laid off a bit."  He bit his lip as he recalled that cold night he'd spent outside on the last day and the bruises he'd had in the morning.  It wouldn't do at all to tell Dumbledore about that.  All those questions like 'how?' and 'why?'  It would be bothersome.  And he really didn't want the Headmaster to worry or anything.  He wouldn't put people to that kind of trouble just for him.

"Good, good.  You know Harry I am sorry you have to deal with problems like these.  I could say problems that are beyond youth.  Adult problems.  But these are beyond even that."

"I know.  Thank you sir," he replied automatically.

"The main reason I've called you here is because you've changed over the summer.  I've noticed that you've made a decision."

Harry flinched.  There was that thought again.  "Umm…what kind of decision?"  

"I can't be sure.  Perhaps you could clue me in?  I know you are a private person Harry.  I know you try to handle things on your own.  But in times such as these, no one should be forced to stand alone."

"Well…there's nothing really…"

"Nothing Harry?"

Harry frowned.  He didn't like to be patronized, and no matter how much he tried to convince himself it was just because Dumbledore cared, he felt that was exactly what was happening.

"Harry?"

The tone of Dumbledore's voice…there was just something there that Harry couldn't decide on.  It was not as if trust was an issue.  Of course he trusted this man.  But…he had to tell him something or they would never let him be.  

"I…I just want to do something.  I don't want to sit here and do nothing.  I don't want to be helpless like I was before," he said uncertainly.  That should be enough.  They should be able to understand that and leave him alone.

"Harry, you're not helpless.  You _were not helpless.  Cedric's death was not your fault.  You were not helpless.  You saved a life that day Harry, your own.  You may think it was selfish, or you may feel guilty for it, but it means the world to all who care about you.  You were not helpless Harry.  You brought Cedric's body back.  You did what you could and you did the __right thing.  You were not, are not helpless Harry.  And being here, finishing school, living your life doesn't mean you aren't doing anything.  There is always a time and a place for action.  Please talk to me Harry.  Tell me what you're thinking.  We can't lose you."_

Harry flinched again.  Was that desperation he heard in the quiet timber of the Headmaster's voice?

"I don't want you to take a responsibility upon yourself that is not yours.  I don't want you to put yourself in danger, and for what?  Revenge is it?"

Harry frowned.  The Headmaster looked at him squarely.

"I've _seen the intent in your eyes Harry.  I know you possess a determination far beyond just wishing to do something productive.  There is much feeling there Harry, and that worries me.  You have every right to feel the way you do.  But I don't want to see you hurt.  We are all here to help you Harry.  Don't turn us away.  What you experienced, no person would be expected to remain composed.  Know that it is all right to grieve.  No one expects you to be strong now."_

Harry felt awash with the compulsion to laugh well and long, but drowned it efficiently lest Dumbledore decide he was insane.

"There are times when weakness can be beneficial…when it is needed.  Don't feel ashamed, you've no need to be.  I just don't want you to avoid what it is you feel, pass it off and distract yourself with other ideas, other _concerns."_

There was the thought again.  Dumbledore _knew._

"Sometimes we lose sight of what it is we are seeking.  And in our blindness we make choices that take us down paths leading us to trouble.  We lose our way in the darkness.  Now, I don't need to tell you revenge is not all it's cracked up to be.  That bit has led many a man to the end of his days or left him alone and lost to his insanity.  I'm not trying to scare you Harry, but I _am worried about you."_

Harry's brow furrowed.  There it was…that patronizing voice.  "It's nothing.  It's not revenge."  He scowled down at his hands fisted in his lap, his shoulders hunched defensively.

"Harry…"

"It's nothing."

Dumbledore sighed heavily.  He had expected Harry to close himself off a bit after Cedric's death.  It was only natural.  But it was still painful to sit and watch his student suffer.  And there was the matter of Harry's intentions.

The Headmaster knew Harry had come to a conclusion over the summer, it was written there in the glint of his eyes.  He acted so purposefully since he'd come back.  And so outwardly deceptive about his reactions to the things that had happened to him, a lack of visible grief, grief that the Professor knew the boy was feeling, somewhere within him, very deeply.  

Mixed with guilt, it was volatile.  A dangerous situation.  Potent latent desires and ambitions…and a lack of inhibition that drove someone so young to do things they could not foresee the effects of.  Thinking they were immortal…it was dangerous to think one was immortal…it was the mistake that Voldemort was making.  

It all smelled funny to the Headmaster.  Like predetermined fate.  Like dreams that go stale left over night…foundations crumbling…fish rotting at the bottom of a barrel.  He didn't like it.  Like the end of a life not yet mature, not yet ready, but terrible in its willingness.  A threat the old wizard could not be sure how to neutralize.  

It was not as if he could pour veritaserum down the boy's throat to find out what he needed to know or lock him up in Gryffindor Tower for the rest of the year to keep him safe and out of trouble.  All he could do was question and watch.  This boy had never been one to sit back and let things happen…he was predisposed to getting into trouble, taking action.

The Headmaster tried to keep up, but sometimes, since last year especially, he really did feel his years.  He was getting old.  He could hear his own bones creak as he walked down the corridors of his school.  Just taking those midnight strolls now tired him at times.

But he needed to be one step ahead if he was to protect this boy who was almost as a grandson to him.  Even if those steps did leave him sore in the morning.  He had seen many lives come and go in his time, but this boy…Harry was something special.  But he had a bad feeling.  He feared for Harry Potter and Dumbledore was rarely frightened of anything, so that was saying something.  One step ahead.  He sighed again and smiled kindly at his charge.

"All right Harry.  I understand.  Looks like it's almost time for your next class…Transfiguration is it?  I've heard you'll be changing rocks into teakettles.  Don't want to miss that.  I'll speak with you again later."

"Yes sir," said Harry with an air of bitterness that surprised him.  The Headmaster didn't so much as flinch as he stood and smiled at the boy.

Harry too rose from his chair, relieved that the interrogation was over.  He turned to leave as the Headmaster called to his back.

"Do remember what I said Harry.  Your friends, Sirius, the professors…we all care deeply about you.  You mean so much to us.  And I am always here if you need to talk.  About anything at all."

He nodded without turning and walked out of the office.

***

Harry made his way through the halls slowly.  He was already five minutes late to class and didn't much care anymore if he ever got there at all.  His little 'chat' with the Headmaster had worn him out, even though he'd barely spoken a word.  But he hated that…being talked at.  He got enough of that from the Dursleys and Snape, Hermione and even Sirius at times.

But Dumbledore had meant well.  Harry couldn't stay angry.  Hell, what else should he have expected?  Dumbledore had said what he was supposed to.  He'd said the right things.  But Harry didn't care to hear about right and wrong at the moment.  Only one thing was on his mind.  And the Headmaster knew what it was.  

Now, that was what was _really bothering him.  Harry couldn't have Dumbledore try to stop him.  He would die if he couldn't avenge Cedric in some way, he would go insane.  He needed to do something, whether Dumbledore liked it or not.  And the less Dumbledore knew, the better._

Harry could remember the look in the Professor's eye when he'd barged in on the imposter Mad-Eye Moody last year.  He didn't want Dumbledore looking at him like that any time soon if he did something against the Headmaster's wishes.  So the less the old wizard knew the better.  Dumbledore couldn't object to what he didn't know, and what he didn't know couldn't hurt him.  

It was much better this way, Harry assured himself, if he took care of his responsibilities on his own.  He couldn't tell _anybody.  They thought he was incapable anyway, that much was obvious.  They thought he was unstable.  That he couldn't make good decisions.  They obviously thought that was why he had let Cedric die.  They knew it was his fault.  And they were lying to him.  _

Harry smirked.  "You're making things up Potter.  You are a despicable self-serving piece of shit.  Who's lying to who?"  

He couldn't help but think it though.  In a way it made him feel better to think that underneath all that good will they all really hated him and thought he was weak.  That way he couldn't disappoint them and wouldn't have to see their faces bent with sorrow, feel their eyes upon him knowing that he had failed.

But he was The Boy Who Lived, at least that's what they all thought of him, and failure wasn't an option.  All of them, even Dumbledore expected him to be strong about this.  Stronger than he was.  But he couldn't disappoint them.  One way or another.

"Cedric."

Harry shook his head and turned his thoughts to exactly what his plan was to be.  He had decided that night, the Welcoming Feast, that Draco Malfoy would be the avenue of his revenge, but he didn't know yet how to go about it.  This was a new business to him.  He didn't have much experience and really it was Voldemort with the upper hand.  But he wouldn't think about that now.  Failure was _not_ an option.  The plan would work.  Well, when he came up with one at any rate.

Of course Malfoy had been the obvious choice.  Draco was clearly the next big thing in the Death Eaters' circle.  His father being Lucius Malfoy just about guaranteed it.  Draco's failure to join the Death Eaters would be a kick in the balls to the Dark Lord.  If the inhuman bastard even had balls anymore.  Harry pulled a face and chuckled softly to himself.  Yes, that was it.  Draco Malfoy could not become a Death Eater.  Voldemort would be angry then, and Harry would be only too happy to put him in such a state.  But how to do it?  He couldn't kill Malfoy, however much he disliked the boy.  That had never been an option anyhow.

He could tell himself with some conviction that he was not a killer, even if sometimes that faith left him.  He was not insane, so he could think of it in a logical way, and he knew he was not.  Everyone said he was not.  But everyone was lying to him too, so what did that mean?  

Harry shook his head again.  Back to the plan.  The point was to turn him.  Or break him.  Make him doubt himself as Harry doubted his own capabilities, his own importance, every moment he breathed.  Turn the boy inside out, ruin him for the Dark Arts, make him as useless as Harry himself felt.  There was a definite type of satisfaction to the thought.  Block both Bludgers with one bat.  Two birds, one stone.  Malfoy would get what he deserved, and Voldemort would be weakened in the process.  But how?

Harry stopped abruptly, bringing his slow trek through the halls to a dead halt as he heard a noise ahead of him.  His breath caught in his throat as Draco Malfoy himself stepped out from the long shadow of a large suit of armor.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the Gryffindor before walking towards him.  Harry remained frozen in his spot as he watched the blond boy saunter his way.  The Slytherin stopped before him, glaring with cautious curiosity.

"Potter."

"Malfoy," Harry said softly as he let an easy glare slip onto his face to match that of his rival.

"Potter what are you doing here?"

"Just going to class."

"Transfiguration is on the other side of the castle."

Harry arched an eyebrow.  "How do you know I have Transfiguration?"

Draco scowled at the boy, his eyes narrowing again to mere slits.

"Get lost Gryffindor."

Harry looked about him a moment and shrugged, slightly perplexed.  "Already am."

Draco eyed him suspiciously.  Harry looked him over thoughtfully.  He hadn't realized how far he'd wandered, far enough to find himself in an unfamiliar dark hallway alone with his Slytherin nemesis.

"Where am I Malfoy?"

"You're on the floor above the dungeons, in the east wing.  This is Slytherin territory.  I suggest you leave."

"Or what?" Harry sneered.

"Or I'll _make_ you leave."

Harry folded his arms across his chest and smirked, a fairly decent imitation of the blond Slytherin himself, perhaps on one of his off days.  "What are you doing here Malfoy?  Shouldn't _you be in class?  Herbology I believe."  He gave the Slytherin a grin, laughing shortly as the blond glared at him.  "You aren't the only one who can spy on people, you know."_

Draco quirked his head and considered the dark haired boy for a moment.  "Why have you been watching me?"

"Why have _you_ been watching _me_?"

"I asked first."

"I don't care."

Draco rolled his eyes and looked distractedly down the narrow hall.  "Fuck off Potter."

Harry didn't budge.  Draco looked to him once more, no longer glaring, but watching him carefully nonetheless.  A minute passed and Harry still hadn't made a move.  Two minutes.  Three.

Five minutes was more than enough to try Draco's patience to its limits.  "Potter leave," he said calmly, coldly.  Harry didn't move.  Draco shook his head.  "I was here first.  What's your fucking problem?  Leave!"

"No."

Draco sighed.  He had come here to the empty hallway to be alone.  To think.  He couldn't very well do that with Potter staring at him as if he'd had a flobberworm up his nose.  "Why the hell not?!"

"I'm thinking."

Draco snorted.  "What about?  Your mudblood girlfriend?  Or is it your muggle-loving boyfriend?  Both, I suspect."

Harry shrugged.  "I don't know."

Draco's brow furrowed in confusion.  He was about to turn and leave the peculiar scene but held back as Harry took a step towards him.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing to the parchment crumpled in Draco's hand.

"Don't you think you ought to mind your own business?" drawled the blond sharply, clutching the paper to his chest.

Harry shrugged.  "Just asking.  You don't have to answer if you don't want to.   I don't even care really."

Draco quirked his head to the side, once again, watching the raven-haired boy, noting his aloofness.  Harry stood slumped, so much so that the hem of his robes draped the floor at least two inches more than it should have.  His arms fell listlessly at his sides, the sleeves of his robes touching the pale tips of his fingers where they peeked from the cuffs.  The extra length could be attributed to the way the cloth hung from his shoulders like wet laundry.  He wore it like a shroud, as it seemed to swallow him up.

The Harry Potter Draco knew didn't stand like that.  And Harry had affected some kind of slur to his speech.  It couldn't be called a drawl; it was too languid.  It was like the effort to separate his words had become too much of a bother, and he'd decided what he was saying wasn't all that important anyhow.  It was odd.  Draco crossed his arms and slumped against the wall.

"It's a letter.  A death-threat to be precise."  He watched Harry for his reaction but the boy didn't appear to be surprised.

Harry nodded.  "Yeah.  I get those too."

Draco channeled his own disbelief into the slight arch of a well-groomed eyebrow, inviting the other boy to continue.

"Started the day after we got back.  'You killed Cedric,'  'Wish you'd died too,' 'You'll get what you deserve,' and all that.  I think it's a Hufflepuff, or maybe a Ravenclaw."  He shrugged again.

Draco nodded.  "That's what I figured too."  He paused a moment picking at the grout in between the clammy stone before letting his grey eyes graze over Harry once again.  Harry shuffled listlessly and came across the way to slump next to the other boy.

"So why do you get them?"

"Huh?"

"The letters."

"I'm a Slytherin."

"Oh, I hadn't noticed."

Draco scowled at him for a moment but let it go.  He didn't have the energy.  Just being near Harry was draining it from him, the other boy's lethargy rubbing off like butterfly scales.  And dusting him with some kind of perpetual gloom.  Not that he had been a paragon of jollity prior to the Gryffindor's intrusion.  But Harry certainly wasn't making him feel any better.  "All of us are getting them.  The ones that didn't stand up last year.  You know at the end of the year feast.  When Dumbledore was singing your praises."

"Oh."  Harry could feel his nerves begin to waver as a long silence settled between them.  He found it surprising that Malfoy hadn't hexed him so far.  But what he found more surprising was that he himself hadn't walked away yet.  He felt compelled to talk to the boy though.  Maybe it would give him a clue.  And Malfoy seemed oddly forthcoming.  Maybe with a bit of give and take.

But he was tired.  And he wasn't thinking straight.  So he felt no shame when the story of his summer came pouring inexplicably from his lips to meet his rival's shocked countenance.

Draco sat dumbfounded at the soul-bearing spectacle that Harry had so suddenly become.  But slowly, as he heard about the letters and the funeral, about the beatings and the dreams, the shock faded away.  And he became angry.

Harry's eyes widened in surprise as he felt the impromptu gesture of a hand cupping roughly over his mouth.  He batted it away and turned to look at the Slytherin glaring at him.

"Why are you telling me this Potter?  You want me to sympathize?  You want my pity?"

"No, I just—."

"You think you had a rough summer Potter?  I'll tell you what a rough summer is.  It's having your whole world flipped upside down in a single day.  It's watching your father whom you've worshipped as the earth and sky and everything in between, get hit with curse after curse for something, the one thing he can't help.  It's feeling that pain in your own skin, watching it on other people's faces, losing yourself to it and never finding the way back again.  You know what I got for it Potter?  I got a knife.  It was so pretty all jeweled and silver.  Sickly gorgeous.  And do you know what I did with that knife Potter?  I…" he paused a moment trembling with quiet rage.  "I...and he...my father..." Draco trailed off staring down at his hands.  A minute later he turned his gaze to Harry again, the anger in his eyes replaced by pure disgust.  "_I had a __rough summer Potter.  And it's all your fucking fault."_

Harry looked at him in shock, not knowing what to say even if he could have managed to form the words.

"So you'll understand when I ask you to…_tell you to stay the fuck away from me."_

Harry shook his head and caught Draco's arm just as he had turned on his heel to walk away.  Draco stared at the fingers gripping his forearm and looked up to glare at their owner.

Harry released him.  "What did you mean Malfoy?  What did all that mean?"

"It's none of your business.  And don't ever put your filthy hands on me ever again," he leaned in closer, barely three inches from Harry's ear, "You're a disease Potter.  All you do is poison everyone you touch.  All you do is hurt them and kill them.  Look what you did to Diggory."

Harry blanched, taking a weak step back.  "I—I didn't…"

"Didn't you?  Think about it.  You know the truth.  It was your fault _Harry.  Just like everything is."  He turned away from the boy and stared at a spot on the wall._

Harry felt his throat close as he listened to the words slip like silk from Draco's mouth.  His fault…all his fault.  Why did it hurt so badly hearing it from Malfoy?  He should expect it from the Slytherin right?  Of course Draco'd say something like that.

Then why couldn't he breath?  Why couldn't he see through the tears welling up in his eyes?  Why did it hurt so bad?  But Harry knew the answer already.  It was because Draco had meant it.  Draco had no reason to lie to him…no reason to try to protect him, so of course he'd tell Harry the truth…and the truth was…

Harry dropped to his knees as a single sob escaped his lips and he hunched over holding his face in his hands.

Draco watched him, not knowing what to do.  He thought for a moment that the Gryffindor was sick, betaken by some sudden affliction.  But he wasn't retching only quaking there quietly, head in his hands, and keening softly like a fallen bird.

It occurred to Draco at last that Harry was crying, was on the floor crying in front of him, all sense of pride, all inhibition lost.  He could feel himself growing angry again.  He couldn't understand.  Why was Harry crying?  He was supposed to be strong, not a whimpering weakling.  It was wrong.  Harry hadn't the right.  Draco had the strongest urge to kick the boy.  So he did.

"Get up you horrible bastard," he hissed laying a harsh jab into the boy's torso.

Harry groaned as he curled into himself holding his side.  He'd stopped his weeping as soon as he'd felt the hard leather toe of Draco's boot impact against his ribs.  Now he looked up with disgust through his messy bangs at the boy standing before him.  He slowly drew himself up wiping his face on his sleeve, but never letting his eyes leave the Slytherin's.  "I hate you," he whispered as he stood.

Draco stared back at him impassively.

"I hate you," he repeated.  "I hate you!"

He lunged at Draco and drove him back, slamming him into the wall.  Draco winced as his head contacted the hard stone masonry with a blunt force.  He had grabbed onto the front of Harry's robes to keep his leverage, but he couldn't do anything more as Harry held him there.  They were the same height he noted.  Four inches taller than they had been last year, coinciding growth spurts.  But Harry held him with little effort fueled by his obvious rage.

Draco was aware of the air stinging a spot on his head and something dripping down to his collar.  He let go of Harry's robes to feel the back of his skull and winced as he brought back fingers stained crimson, his blood, which he could now feel crawling slowly down the back of his neck, sending his skin into a frenzy and making the short hairs there prickle and stand on end.

Harry looked at him with startled green eyes, never letting go of Draco.  Neither spoke as they stood almost frozen, for minutes, both in a state of shock, their wide eyes staring perplexed at the Slytherin's hand.  Finally Draco looked up to meet Harry's gaze, the shock quickly fading to anger and then malice.  Harry blinked and Draco let a low rumble of a growl escape his lips.

"What, were you trying to kill me then Potter?  Just like you killed Cedric?  Are you going to kill me too?"  His voice grated the air, shredding what silence there had been there between them.

Harry let go of him and backed away shaking his head.  "I—I didn't mean—I'm sorry…"  He looked into Draco's angry slate eyes.  "I'm so sorry."

Draco watched as Harry seemed to loose what semblance of composure he had had.  The boy looked at him with horror swimming in those deep green pools.  The disbelief, the remorse…the _guilt was unmistakable.  _

The apology had been only a whisper but the sorrow of those words made Draco's breath catch in his throat.  The boy looked as if he'd committed a murder…or something far worse.  

Betrayal.  Harry gasped, his short breaths wavering in his quivering chest.  He'd betrayed himself and his friends and his parents and Cedric.  The fear made him shake in a way he didn't know how to stop.  He'd hurt someone…he might have killed him.  He felt he could have.  He realized suddenly, he couldn't sense that piece of him anymore.  That piece that was his compassion, that was his innocence.  That piece that made him incapable of causing another harm.  That piece that had spared Peter Pettigrew.  It was numb.  And it was gone and he was scared at what he was capable of.  

Draco looked at him oddly.  Such an extreme reaction for nothing, a single harsh comment, bruises and a little blood.  Weasley had bloodied him up enough times.  Harry had never reacted then, not like this.  But then Potter hadn't been the one to do it.  But somehow this was different.  There was fear in those eyes.  Harry had gone deathly pale.  Draco was sure it shouldn't have been a big deal, but for some reason it was.

Harry wanted to run, to get far away from Draco.  He wanted to run and hide somewhere where they wouldn't find him, ever.  He opened his mouth to say something, something to fix the situation, but nothing came.  And Draco was looking at him so accusingly.

He backed away a bit further and Draco took a step towards him.  Harry's green eyes flamed with fright and the desperate need to flee as Draco took another step and another.  He was close enough now that Harry could see the blood dribbling down his neck to stain the white collar of the dress shirt he wore beneath his robes.  Harry nearly collapsed as Draco stretched that bloodied hand towards him.  What had he done?  _Oh god Cedric…_

Draco opened his mouth to speak as he reached for Harry, but without warning he felt his world spinning like a billywig in a windstorm.  Before a single word could escape his pale lips, he lurched forward, his balance suddenly quite absent.  

Harry caught him as Draco fell into his arms.  But the weight was too much…that dead weight in his arms…so familiar.  Limp and heavy.  And so very still.  Harry could still remember.

He panicked and jerked his arms away from the pale boy's body, dropping Draco onto the floor with an appalling thud.  Dead weight.  Harry looked at the boy lying motionless on the floor, a rivulet of red meandering down his neck and those platinum locks to pool shallowly on the cold stone that pillowed his head so lovingly.  He shifted his gaze away and closed his eyes, feeling ill.

But he couldn't keep his eyes closed forever, and when he opened them Draco was still there as unmoving as ever.  As Harry's stomach tightened, he turned from the fallen boy to the darkness of the corridor.

And ran.

**A/N#2:  This chapter, hmm, well…as my grade report would say: UNSATISFACTORY. Too much melodrama for my tastes.  I really ought to keep to biology.  But then this is more fun.  Unless we're dissecting rats.  Now _there was a good time…that disease part reeks of The Matrix, I didn't mean to I swear.  Next chapter will start off the slashiness.  I'd be interested to know what people's opinions are on the style and atmosphere of this story.  I'm kind of out of practice writing this stuff, what with TTWH and all, which feels totally different to author.  I have the lingering feeling that this sucks pretty bad.  _****Thanks you's to aisling, Demeter, Jive, Altair, Ines, Morphia Productions, bwaybaby79, whippy, Princess of Mirrors, DangerMouse, Penelope-Z, Death Eater Apostate, JediGinny, Gryph Grin, Kaze no Uta, Duas Wyndrunner, ablc, Chinawolf and slytherlynx.  Review and I will be happy.  Don't review and I will be sad.  It's as simple as that.  Thanks!**


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